James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
March 21The Death of the Duke dEnghien
By Henry Kirke White (17851806)
W
That glimmers in the inmost wood;
As though beneath the felon night,
It marked some deed of blood?
Behold yon figures, dim descried
In dark array; they speechless glide.
The forest moans; the raven’s scream
Swells slowly o’er the moated stream,
As from the castle’s topmost tower,
It chants its boding song alone:
A song, that at this awful hour
Bears dismal tidings in its funeral tone;
Tidings, that in some grey domestic’s ear
Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear.
And, hark, that loud report! ’tis done;
There’s murder couched in yonder gloom;
’Tis done, ’tis done! the prize is won,
Another rival meets his doom.
The tyrant smiles,—with fell delight
He dwells upon the…..
The tyrant smiles; from terror freed,
Exulting in the foul misdeed,
And sternly in his secret breast
Marks out the victims next to fall.
His purpose fixed; their moments fly no more,
He points,—the poniard knows its own;
Unseen it strikes,—unseen they die,
Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the groan.
But justice yet shall lift her arm on high,
And Bourbon’s blood no more ask vengeance from the sky.